


Before

by MoonRiver



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Abuse, Drug Withdrawal, Family, Holmes Brothers, Homeless Sherlock, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft before he was the British government, Sexual Content, Sherlock-centric, Young Mycroft, Young Sherlock, some Non-Con elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 21:22:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5681212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonRiver/pseuds/MoonRiver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I was there for you before. I'll be there for you again. I'll always be there for you."</p><p>The truth was Mycroft had been there for him more times than Sherlock could count. Each time Sherlock didn't deserve his help, and each time he tried to turn him away. </p><p>But the truth was if Mycroft hadn't been there for him all those times he probably wouldn't have lived past thirty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Overdose

**Author's Note:**

> Please note there aren't any actual spoilers for "The Abominable Bride" in this. This story is set before the days of Sherlock and John- even before Mycroft was the British government.
> 
> This was actually something I wrote quite awhile ago, but it's just one of those stories that never posted. I came across it on my computer and was like...why haven't I done anything with this?! Then TAB aired, and I thought it was the perfect time to post something like this!

Sherlock would only remember his first overdose in spurts of fuzzy flashbacks.

He knew at the time he was staying in a squat with some guy some…David? Chris? James?

It had been raining and cold that cold that night.  

He remembered wearing a red hoodie, the same hoodie he had been wearing when he left home nearly nine months ago.

And he remembered he…he might have…he might have even slept with someone.

That cluster of memories was all he had when his eyes fluttered opened the next morning. He woke up in some dump, some room that was cluttered with blankets and mattresses. His arms felt numb as he tried to move, and everything he could feel hurt too much to move. It felt like he’d been run over by a train and the only thing he could manage to do was crawl into the fetal position. The room was freezing, his hoodie seemed to be missing, and…oh god he was completely naked. His skin was drenched in sweat, and he felt absolutely filthy.

He had definitely slept with someone.

“Yes.”

He jumped and his heart began pounding at the sound of another voice. It was like someone was reading his mind! Answering his thoughts.

Maybe they could help him.

Sherlock tried to speak out to him, but his voice didn’t seem to work.

“Sherlock?” Oh god, it knew his name! “Sherlock? Can you hear me?”

He opened his mouth but his throat felt too raw to speak.

Water. That’s what he needed. Water helped to make your voice work when you woke up with a sore throat.

A face appeared in front of him, and for the first time he realised the thing that was talking to him must be human. Maybe it was the bloke he had been with?

Something hard hit his face, and he wished he knew what was going on because that really fucking hurt.

“You’re high!” The voice shouted. The hard thing hit his face again. “You’re high as a bloody kite, Sherlock!”

Sherlock frowned as he realised the voice sounded familiar. It wasn’t the bloke he slept with. This voice was concerned and…and _pissed_. He squinted, trying to get the double vision he was experiencing to subside. He rubbed his eyes and when he looked up again he finally recognized who the voice belonged to. A young, tall, pale-faced red-head was staring down at him. His suit, his shoes, the mobile he was holding all made it painfully obvious he wasn’t from this neighbourhood but the man didn’t seem to care.

There was only one person he knew who fit that description.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock whispered.

What little he had of his voice erupted into coughs. His chest hurt, his lungs hurt, his head hurt- oh right.

He had been sick.

That was the other thing he remembered: he had been really sick that week.

“An ambulance is on its way,” Mycroft informed him as he began storming around, collecting Sherlock’s things. The red hoodie he remembered wearing  was on the floor next to his mattress, along with a pair of ripped up jeans were thrown at him. A worn, filthy, pair of sneakers was well. “Get dressed.”

Sherlock just blinked, not understanding the command. Was he going somewhere? Looking down at his bare body, he found his left arm covered with needle marks, his hips bruised by fingertip-shaped marks, and the rest of him covered in dirt and grime. He found himself not bothered at all by the fact his brother was seeing him naked. Instead he wanted to know…how was Mycroft here? How did he find him?

Was he even really here or was he imagining this?

“Get dressed!” Mycroft barked again. When Sherlock didn’t move Mycroft let out a loud cry of frustration before he dropped to the floor beside him and grabbed the hoodie. Apparently, he didn’t own a shirt to put under it. His stomach did flip-flops as the hoodie was forced over his head and then the jeans over his legs. “I guess you don’t care about the entire bloody world knowing you live like this, but I will not have everyone see my baby brother like this.”

Who was going to see him like this again?

“Am I getting visitors?” Sherlock asked as he pulled the jeans up the rest of the way.

His eyes were wild and unfocused as he gazed up at his brother. He shivered; even with the hoodie he was so cold it felt like he was naked.

“What did you take?” Mycroft demanded. Take? He didn’t steal anything. His brother grabbed a used needle from the ground and shoved it in his face. Oh. That. “What did you take?”

“I…” Sherlock searched his mind, but when he tried to focus all he got were letters, flying around his brain. He couldn’t form words with them. “Myc? I…what…I’m not…I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

At last he could give a final, honest, complete statement. It was a statement that seemed to hit home with his brother. Mycroft’s face melted into fear and sympathy, and he didn’t yell at him again as he placed his arms around Sherlock’s body and help him stand.

“It’s going to be okay.”

The comforting words, whispered into his ear, were all he could focus on as he was led out of the squat and into an ambulance.

 

Everything went a bit fuzzy after that until he finally passed out in the ambulance and woke up in a hospital room. He was in a bed, in a room with all sorts of equipment he used to know the names for. But his body was once again numb, and his brain felt like it had taken a heavy beating. He couldn’t recall the names of anything in the room, nor could he remember why he was there. He could just barely remember what hospitals were for, and he realised if he were in one something must be wrong with him.

His eyes roamed his body. A dressing gown covered his filthy skin. Bandages covered his left arm, his hands. His feet were wrapped in warm, clean socks. It felt like the insides of his stomach were swimming around while his head pounded, like his brain was desperate to escape. He let out a long, shaky, breath and someone nearby stirred in response.

Looking around, Sherlock was surprised to once again find his brother staring back at him. Mycroft was wearing a suit, but a different one than what he remembered seeing him in earlier. Was it a different day, then?

His brother’s face was pale; dark circles had settled beneath his eyes. His hands shook as his elbows rested on his knees. He was bent over, like he might be sick. He looked like he had been sitting that way for days, and now that something was happening he didn’t know how to move again.

“Mycroft?” He asked quietly.

He could just barely get his voice to work above a whisper.

“Sherlock.”

Suddenly his brother rushed toward him, and a pair of arms wrapped around his body before he could say anything. It took him a moment to realise he was being hugged by his brother. Mycroft let out a shaky breath as he held him tightly, and Sherlock let him stay like that for a few minutes before he had to ask more questions. He couldn’t ever remember Mycroft being this emotional: even when their grandfather- who his brother adored- passed away he was simply stiff and quiet at his funeral.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” Sherlock whispered.

“You were drugged.”

Drugged? No, that wasn’t right.

Drugs, yes. That would be him: the junkie.

 _Drugged?_ No. That would never happen. He was far too careful to allow himself to be drugged.

“Mycroft, I-"

His brother pulled himself away so their foreheads could rest against each other.

“You were drugged,” Mycroft repeated. “You were forced to take the drugs.”

Then he remembered. He remembered stuffing a needle into his arms. He remembered being handed bags of…something.

“I took the drugs,” Sherlock confessed. “Mycroft, I did it. It was me.”

His brother looked him in the eye, and suddenly Sherlock found himself having trouble breathing.

“No,” Mycroft insisted. “Sherlock, I told the doctors you were on a date and you were drugged.”

Eyes wide, Sherlock desperately shook his head.

“That’s not what-" he had to stop to gasp for breath.

He was hyperventilating, and it felt like if he couldn’t get a good breath soon he might pass out.

“But that’s what I told them,” Mycroft said, “because if I told them the truth, you’d be laying here in handcuffs. So just please, please go along with this, okay?”

“I took the drugs,” Sherlock whispered.

“Yes but people _can’t know that_.” Mycroft stopped, took a deep breath, and held onto his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. The truth is I just got promoted, alright? And with the position I’m in nobody, _nobody_ can find out my brother’s a junkie.”

Funny, for a moment there he thought Mycroft was actually worried about him.

“Yeah well, congrats,” Sherlock spat.

A hand fell on his cheek, his brother’s eyes softened, and Sherlock instantly felt badly for thinking ill of him.

“I can’t remember anything,” Sherlock admitted.

Mycroft nodded as he stood back, moving his hand to the railing of the bed.

“You overdosed on cocaine,” Mycroft explained. “Sherlock they…they said there was evidence you had sex. But the injuries they found…they want to run some tests. They need to know…they want to know if you were forced.”

_Oh god._

Sherlock felt sick.

He couldn't even remember having sex so it was possible, but the idea of being raped and not even remembering it was terrifying. Surely he would know? Surely his body would give him better cues about what happened?

But now the fact was they had to stick with Mycroft's story. If no one could know that he overdosed then no one had to know that he was worried he was raped.

“If you told them I was drugged-"

“ _I_ want to know the truth.” Mycroft said, giving him the most sincere, concerned, frightened look Sherlock had ever seen from him. “Sherlock you can tell me _anything_.”

The truth was Sherlock truly didn’t remember anything. All he remembered was there was…someone. But even though he didn’t remember what happened, he felt ashamed knowing that he let something like that happen to him.

“I don’t even remember who he was,” Sherlock croaked. “I don’t remember what he looked like. I don’t know his name. I don’t know how I met him. I don’t even remember what we did or where. I just remember…I just remember his hands. He was rough.”

Suddenly he did remember those hands grabbing his hips, holding him steady against…something. He remembered those hands grabbing at his neck, his head, his arms.

There was another hand on his arm but this one was soft, comforting. He looked down to find it belonged to Mycroft; his brother squeezed his arm gently.

“Mycroft…” what exactly was there to say? He felt absolutely sick, and not just because he was lightheaded and confused. He felt sick because he knew this would change him forever.

“I’m bloody pissed off at you,” Mycroft whispered. “You scare me, Sherlock. You disappear, you run away and hide, and you put yourself in danger. But I know you’re scared too.”

He was, god he was, and not even just because of what he just told Mycroft.

“You’re staying with me,” Mycroft announced. Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but instead his brother looked him straight in the eye and said: “But I’d like you to go to rehab.”

With a loud groan, Sherlock threw his head back against the pillow.

“No!” He whined. “No, Mycroft, I’m fine.”

_I’m not. I’m really not._

_But I’m even more afraid of how hard rehab will be than I am of living on the streets._

“Fine?!” Mycroft’s voice exploded throughout the room. “Fine?! You nearly killed yourself, Sherlock! I can’t figure out if it’s just because you’re stupid or if it was some cry of help, but you are _not_ fine. Do you have any idea how much cocaine you took? Not to mention I can’t even fathom how you’re paying for them. You’re living in a squat, sleeping on the floor. Malnourished, dehydrated. I will not let you continue to live like this.”

Sherlock had frozen after his brother mentioned pay.

Pay.

Mycroft was right: paying for drugs was becoming increasingly harder. That night was beginning to come back to him: he remembered someone else living in the squat saying they knew someone who could give him some drugs even if he was short on money. For some reason Sherlock had assumed maybe he would be doing some kind of work for the guy, some legwork in a drug deal maybe. Something like that. Instead…

His hands flew to his forehead, pressing hard against his skin as a memory flooded back to him.

_He was on the floor, panting, trying to get away from someone. His hands were clawing at concrete. Someone pulled at his hair hard and he yelped._

“Sherlock?” Mycroft’s stammering brought him back to reality.

Sherlock didn’t realised that a single tear had fallen from his eye until he looked up at his brother and a gentle finger fell upon his face and whipped the tear away. He had had sex with someone to pay for drugs. And it had been rough. Rougher than he had imagined sex could be.

Throwing an arm over his face to block the tears forming in his eyes, Sherlock felt like his life couldn't get any more pathetic. Why should he even bother with rehab? His life was meaningless. He had ruined it, all in one short year, and he felt like there was just no coming back from this.

“You’re staying with me,” Mycroft announced. “End of discussion. You will start therapy after you are discharged, and if I ever catch you doing drugs again you’re going to rehab. Understood?”

Nodding, Sherlock swallowed hard, trying to keep the tears at bay. He debated about telling Mycroft what he just remembered- that the sex might not have been as consensual as he had thought- but his brother was already disgusted with him enough. After all, Mycroft would probably say it was his fault anyway. He should have known what he was getting himself into. He shouldn’t have been doing drugs anyway. He shouldn’t have let his guard down.

Suddenly a mobile buzzed, and Mycroft checked his phone.

“It’s Mummy,” Mycroft explained.

Sherlock grabbed his wrist before he could wander into the hall to take the call.

“Did you tell her you found me?” Sherlock demanded.

His brother let out a dramatic sigh.

“You’re her son, Sherlock,” Mycroft pointed out. “It’s been all I could do to stop her from phoning the police.”

His stomach lurched at the thought of his mother- his dear, brilliant, mother who had done nothing but provide for him and make sure he had the best upbringing possible- pacing the house worried sick about his disappearance. He intended to only be gone during their annual trip to Oklahoma but then his life snowballed into chaos. Sherlock sneaked away to the city and lost track of how long he had been gone. A couple of weeks turned into months, and soon he had decided to drop out of his second year of uni. He had wanted to try to make it on his own and find his way in the world without the help of his family, who seemed to have controlled every moment of his life from the moment he was born.

And he had failed, miserably.

In the end he had been too afraid to go back home and let his family see what he had become. But now he desperately wished to see his mum and dad. He desperately wanted to have those comforts of home again. He just…he just wanted to feel safe.

Yet he knew his parents could never learn the truth of what happened to him and all those things he did.

“Just…tell her I’m okay,” he pleaded.

His brother looked at him with sympathy and replied quietly:

“Oh Sherlock…you are far from okay.”

With that Mycroft answered the call and left the room, leaving Sherlock feeling like he wanted to melt into the floor. He threw his head back against the bed and let out a single, broken sob.

_What have I done?_


	2. Withdrawal

He kept having dreams about being cold.

His dreams were dark, with no clear vision of where he was.

He would always wake up shivering, despite the fact that Mycroft’s flat got unreasonably hot even if the heat was barely on.

Sherlock found himself sleeping more than usual, despite his strange dreams, and Mycroft didn’t seem to mind at all. That day was no different: he slept most of the day while his brother was working. He woke up with a gasp around six, finding himself shivering once again and clutching the blankets around his body. His nose detected a faint smell of cooking, but he couldn’t tell what it was Mycroft was cooking. It was something he had noticed over the past few months- his sense of smell was deteriorating, and it was becoming quite unnerving.

Although his stomach growled at the thought of food the idea of eating still made him feel a bit ill. His brother was taking his doctor’s orders about re-establishing a normal diet to a whole new level. He’d been cooking him every meals- including making him lunches he could eat during the day.

Of course it had taken him a whole forty-eight hours just to stop throwing up after he was home from the hospital.

But now, perhaps maybe he really should force himself to eat something.

Grabbing his dressing gown, Sherlock ran his hands through his curls as he shuffled down the hallway. Mycroft’s flat was small. The bedrooms were tiny- hardly enough room for a full-size bed and a bedside table. The kitchen was crammed into a corner and the living room simply had a sofa and a desk. It was a far cry from the luxury Mycroft was used to back home, but his brother didn’t seem to mind.

He found his brother hovering over the stove, stirring a rather large pot as he sipped at a glass of wine. Classical music was playing on the radio. Mycroft looked rather…relaxed: it was an odd look on his brother.

“It’s nice to see you getting some rest,” his brother comment. “The stew is almost ready. There’s bread on the table, if you’d like to go ahead and have some.”

Bread seemed like something he could handle. Throughout most of the week he had been here he had hardly been able to manage more than broth and toast. Maybe dinner rolls and stew would be a good gateway food.

He sank down into a seat at the small kitchen table and picked up the newspaper. Even as he just glanced over the national news he realised how out of touch with the world he had become. During his nine months away from home all he cared about was where he would sleep at night and how he would get food…and drugs. He was lost in his own world. At the time it was what he wanted: to make his own way in the world.

Now he felt he had just been selfish.

And his family knew it.

Not only that, but he was now relying on his family to help put him back on his feet.

“You don’t have to keep making me food,” Sherlock muttered.

“I had to cook anyway,” Mycroft said, waving away his offer, “and you need some vegetables in you. I can’t imagine the last time you had a real meal- and broth doesn’t count.”

Honestly, he didn’t know either.

Sherlock bit his lip and closed his eyes.

He couldn’t think about this. He couldn’t think about how sad his life had become. It was like his therapist had said: he should only be thinking about _what_ his life could become.

…and now he was admitting to himself that he had listened to his therapist last night.

“Here we go,” Mycroft announced. A firm, but proud, smile sat on his face as he presented Sherlock with a bowl of stew. “It’s Mummy’s recipe. I’m afraid I put too much salt in it, but I suppose it will take practise.”

Was his brother actually nervous about cooking for him? Sherlock couldn’t help but to smirk at the thought. His arm felt weak as he raised his hand to pick up the spoon and lift some stew into his mouth. He had to admit, it was a bit salty, but his body seemed to welcome the nutrients of the vegetables.

“Thank you,” he muttered. “The stew’s fine.”

Yet his brother’s face contorted into disgust as he tried the dish for himself.

“Yes, far too much salt,” Mycroft murmured to himself. “Nonetheless, you need the nutrition. I noticed you didn’t eat the sandwich I left for you for lunch.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“I felt nauseous,” he admitted.

“The doctor did say he could prescribe nausea medicine if-"

“No!” He protested. His goal was to try to see how long he could go without any drugs, not to add any to his body. “No, I’m fine.”

He stuffed more stew into his mouth and turned back to the newspaper. Across from him, Mycroft kept his eyes glues to the table, and he had the feeling the newspaper had been placed there to provide him a distraction, not Sherlock.

“Mummy phoned,” Mycroft finally blurted out a few quiet moments later.

Sherlock’s eyes lifted up to him, horrified.

Although he could admit to himself that he missed his mother and maybe even felt like he _needed_ his mother, he couldn’t bring himself to face her or talk to her.

“She wanted to talk to you, but I told her you were sleeping,” Mycroft admitted. “I thought you would rather talk to her on your own terms.”

Was his brother actually being…thoughtful?

“Thanks,” Sherlock replied sincerely. “I just…I don’t know what to tell her yet.”

“She’s just happy you’re okay.”

_Okay._

Sherlock wasn’t even sure what the word ‘okay’ meant anymore. He was alive: was that ‘okay’? He had a roof over his head: was that ‘okay’? His family knew where he was now: was that ‘okay’?

“She must hate me,” Sherlock whispered. He stared into his bowl of stew for a long moment before finally he confessed: “I don’t know what to tell her.”

He was surprised when Mycroft threw him a sympathetic glance, and he considered maybe his brother really _did_ want to help him. Maybe his concerns really were genuine.

“You made a mistake, Sherlock,” Mycroft said as he scooped some more stew into his mouth with a grimace. “You made a really, really bad mistake. But all I want you to care about right now is doing whatever you have to do to just…get better.”

His brother really cared.

His family really cared.

Yes, they were angry at him. They deserved to be angry at him.

But they still loved him.

And maybe…just maybe there was still a chance that he could be a part of the family again.

“I don’t deserve this,” Sherlock whispered. “I’ve been awful to you. I’ve been awful to Mummy and Daddy. I destroyed my life. This isn’t your problem.”

“Frankly, Sherlock, you’re my baby brother. All of your problems are my problem.”

He wasn’t sure why that was supposed to be reassuring to him.

“Yeah, well they don’t have to be.” Suddenly he wasn’t hungry anymore. Suddenly his stomach felt sour and exhaustion was taking over him. He abruptly pushed his stew away from him. “I can’t eat. I feel sick I…I’m just going back to bed.

He fled from the table before Mycroft could stop him. Tears flooded his eyes as he leapt onto the guest bed and threw the covers on top of him.

He didn’t know who he was anymore. He couldn’t keep track of how he felt emotionally or physically. A moment ago he was certain he was going to throw up but now his stomach was grumbling. Maybe he was only feeling nauseas because he hadn’t eaten.

On cue, there was a knock at his door. Of course, it was Mycroft’s flat. He could run from the table but his brother could follow him.

“Sherlock, you need to eat,” Mycroft called from the hall. “You’re malnourished. It’s part of why you’re feeling sick. Please. You don’t have to eat with me.”

That was an appealing thought.

He could live with that.

Maybe that was why meals and eating seemed so unappealing to him: eating meant facing Mycroft.

Wordlessly, he slipped out of bed and shuffled to the door. He opened it just enough to take the bowl and water from Mycroft. He felt like he was going in slow motion as he closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed. Staring down at the bowl, he felt as though the food was taunting him.

When he wanted to eat he couldn’t eat. He wanted to sleep but he had nightmares.

His brain was running double time.

He knew what was happening: his body was failing to adjust to being without cocaine.

Sherlock was trying desperately to ignore the dry taste in his mouth, the nagging in the back of his mind telling him if he could just have a hit- _one_ hit- that was all he needed him to get him through.

He couldn’t shake the thought.

It would be easy enough. He could sneak out once Mycroft fell asleep; he knew of at least two dealers in the area who would probably let him…

Let him…

Closing his eyes tightly, he carefully sat the bowl of stew on the bedside table and wrapped his arms around his stomach. He couldn’t do _that_ for drugs. Not again. Not ever again.

But it had barely been a few days, and already his brain was so desperate for a hit that he was already considering it, even if just in the back of his mind.

This wasn’t working.

Sherlock drew in a deep breath as he lifted himself off the bed and forced himself to walk back into the kitchen, where his brother was doing the washing up. He took a step back, not wanting to interrupt, but he reminded himself he was being silly. He had to tell him. Either he had to tell someone or…

The other option just wasn’t an option.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock spoke up abruptly. He was shaking; he grabbed onto a kitchen chair to steady himself. His brother turned around slowly, eyebrow raised in curiosity, and waited for him to explain. “I’ve been having cravings.”

He expected his brother to yell. He expected a lecture about how much of a disappointment he was, about how weak he was.

Instead Mycroft said nothing.

He didn’t know if he wanted more of an explanation or what so Sherlock kept rambling:

“I don’t want drugs. I don’t. But it’s just constantly there, nagging me. I just…I wanted to tell someone.”

His brother’s eyes diverted to the floor for a long moment before flashing back up to him.

“I’m glad you told me,” his brother replied quietly. There was a long pause between them before Mycroft finally sat down at the table and rested his fingertips to his chin. Sherlock did the same. “I’m glad you told me, Sherlock. I don’t mean to upset you, but I honestly don’t know what to do now. What do you need me to do?”

Taken aback, Sherlock’s mouth fell open but he just wasn’t sure what to say. He really didn’t know what he _wanted_. Or what he _needed_.

“I don’t know,” he whispered.

Secretly he wished Mycroft would know what to do.

But he knew that wasn’t fair.

Mycroft had never been through this before. This wasn’t something he should have prepared for.

“This is why I thought rehab would be a good idea,” Mycroft confessed. “I can be here for you to talk to you, to take care of you, to provide you with a place to stay. But this problem is real, Sherlock. Addiction doesn’t just go away on its own.”

_Addiction._

Sherlock hated the word.

He wasn’t an _addict_. Addicts were helpless. Addicts couldn’t live without their drugs. He could live without cocaine, he knew he could.

He just felt…lost.

“I’m not an addict,” he protested quietly.

He had never seen his brother’s eyes turn from sympathetic to furious so quickly. He swallowed nervously; Mycroft was finally about to break. He hadn’t gone off on him this whole time, and he was finally going to break.

“Sherlock, you almost killed yourself!” Mycroft exclaimed. “You’ve been living on the streets for _nine months_. God only knows how much cocaine you injected into your body during that time. God only knows how many times you came close to…”

“You weren’t there!” Sherlock cried. “Who are you to judge my drug habits? All you saw was me overdosing _once_ , and you assume I’m an addict?”

“Once is all it takes to kill you!” His brother shouted as he jumped to his feet. Sherlock scurried to stand up, as to not be left alone sitting at the table. They glared at each other until finally his brother demanded: “How many times then? How often did you use?”

 _Every day,_ his mind answered for him, _but by choice._

“This is what I’m talking about,” Mycroft sighed. “I’m in over my head here, Sherlock, and so are you. I want to help you, and I think the best thing I can do is to get you professional help.”

He was starting to realise that the decision was up to him. He had wanted to make it on his own, to be independent, and now he was. Mycroft wasn’t taking him in so he could tell him what to do; his brother knew that wouldn’t work. If rehab was going to happen he had to make the decision to go himself.

And maybe he should go.

Maybe it wouldn’t be the end of the world to go. He wouldn’t be there forever, and Mycroft was right neither of them knew what they were doing. Sherlock knew he was capable of living without drugs, but he also knew temptation was all around.

In rehab there would be no temptations.

“Okay,” Sherlock finally breathed. His brother looked shocked- relieved, actually. He looked relieved. He was off the hook. “I’ll do it, but under one condition…I want to see Mummy first.”

It wouldn’t be fair to disappear without having some kind of closure with his mother. He had already been so unfair to her, so horrible to her. He had to let her see that he was serious about getting help.

His brother nodded and replied:

“I can arrange that.” He hesitated for a long moment before stating quietly: “I’m proud of you, Sherlock.”

But Sherlock’s stomach was already sick with nerves.

He was really doing this.

He was going to rehab.

He could only manage to find the strength to mutter:

“Thanks. I’m going to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your feedback! I really love knowing what you guys think of the story. I've decided to make this three parts, and then I might turn this into a series. Anyway, thanks for reading!!


	3. Breakdown

It had taken Mycroft no time to find him a rehab centre and get him admitted.

In fact, he wouldn’t have been surprised if Mycroft had already been doing research in case he could convince him to go.

He was to check in that night, in approximately five hours. His mum was on the way, and they were to ride with Mycroft to the rehab his centre once his brother got off work. His initial program would be thirty days- initial, as though everyone already doubted he could get better that soon.

Honestly, he wasn’t sure himself if he could do this. He had no idea rehab would be like, and that thought scared him. He was so tired of living day today without knowing what to expect. He just wanted some kind of normal…and really, these past few days with Mycroft was the closest thing to normal he had had all year. It was rather nice, and now that he faced this new chapter in his life he almost regretted agreeing to give it up.

But Mycroft had agreed that if he could complete the program and prove that he could be sober, he would let Sherlock move back into, and at least that gave him some sort of goal.

 

He had nothing to pack, but Mycroft did insist that he eat before they go. So there he found himself, staring at the sandwich and soup Mycroft made him. His stomach was all in knots; for months he had just eaten off of fish and chips he bummed off his street mates and whatever scraps he could find. The more ‘real’ food he tried to eat the sicker he felt. It was like his body was just rejecting anything he put into it.

All his body seemed to want was drugs.

There was a knock at the door and Sherlock’s heart leapt. It began pounding madly as he shakingly stood up from the kitchen table walked over to the door where his mother stood behind, waiting to see her son for the first time in nine months. Waiting to see her son who had run away from her, who failed her.

For a long moment he stared at the door, wondering what he would say. What _could_ he say? Maybe he shouldn’t even say anything: it would be too insulting to her to try to make excuses for himself.

At last he opened the door. His eyes darted around, desperately trying to avoid meeting his mother’s, but a finger fell on his chin, forcing him to look up.

“Mum,” Sherlock whispered weakly.

Instead of lecturing him, yelling at him, or saying anything his mum simply threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly.

“Oh love,” his mum murmured as he stroked his curls.

She let out a quiet sob and he let himself give in, resting his head on her shoulder.

“Mum,” he said again. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’ve been so worried,” she confessed. “Mycroft kept telling me he had it under control, but I just knew something wasn’t right.”

Mycroft had it under control? Had his brother lied to his mum about what was going on?

“What did he tell you?” Sherlock asked.

She pulled away, taking his hands instead and stepping back so she could get a good look at him.

“You’ve lost so much weight,” she said, shaking her head. “You didn’t need to lose any more weight. Mycroft says you haven’t been eating properly.”

Sherlock bit his lip before muttering:

“I eat.”

“That’s not what I said,” his mother sighed.

She pushed past him without asking permission, and he actually almost laughed when he saw her eyes narrow with disapproval at the state of Mycroft’s flat.

“Well he said his flat was nothing special,” she admitted, “but this…we offered to help him, you know.”

“I think he likes supporting himself,” Sherlock said. “I think he’s doing pretty well.”

At least he has a roof over his head. He could afford food. He wasn’t ashamed to talk to his mother.

A small smile peered at the corners of his mother’s lips as she straightened the pillows and throw on the sofa.

“I remember my first place,” she mused. “It wasn’t nearly as nice as this place. It was about as big as a box…one small room for the bed _and_ kitchen. I didn’t even own a sofa until I was almost thirty-two.”

Without a word she wandered into the kitchen where she instinctively began clearing dishes from the counter and taking them out of the sink.

“There’s no dishwasher,” she announced. She stared up at Sherlock, startled. “Is Myc hand-washing dishes?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure if she was amused or disgusted.

“It’s therapeutic for him,” he replied simply.

His mother let out a laugh.

“Funny, it was never therapeutic when he was a boy,” she said, shaking her head. When she turned back to Sherlock all signs of amusement had faded from her face. Instead she looked empathetic. She pitied him. “I’m sorry. Whatever it was I did that pushed you away, I’m sorry.”

That he did not expect. That he never thought of: that his mum had blamed herself for him running away.

And now he felt ten times worse than he did before.

“It wasn’t because of you,” Sherlock blurted out. “I…honestly I don’t really know what the turning point was. You and dad, you’ve been so good to me my whole life. But uni just wasn’t working out. Uni was _boring_ and dull. I was spending all this time in school studying and working, but I didn’t really have a clue what I wanted to do with my life.”

“You wanted to be a chemist!” His mother protested. “You were going to be a scientist. It was your life plan since you were four!”

“I know!” Sherlock groaned. “But…I didn’t really know, did I? How could I _know_ I wanted to be a chemist without actually doing it? How could I _know_ what I wanted to do with my life without really living in the world? Uni just felt so useless- it was just a bunch of spoiled young people who thought they knew everything they wanted out of the world.”

“So you could have taken time off!” His mother said. “We would have supported that.”

Sherlock curled his hands into fist by his side, determined to remain as respectful as possible.

“You wouldn’t have!” He argued. “You wanted me in uni the moment I graduated from school. I had no other choice. No one even noticed I was miserable there. Then I came home and you and dad went off to Oklahoma and Mycroft…Mycroft was a bit unbearable. He had comments to make about every class I was planning to take the next semester. He was ordering me around the house like I was his servant. He was bragging about his job like he’s royalty.”

His mother’s eyes narrowed.

“So Mycroft pushed you away?” She challenged.

He swallowed nervously.

He also didn’t want his brother to feel responsible, even though truthfully Mycroft was a big part of why he felt like he didn’t fit in to his old life.

“I just felt like I didn’t know who I was anymore,” Sherlock confessed, ignoring her question. “I thought that if I went to the city and tried to find work I might really see what life is about. I wanted to meet people and just…see how other people lived.”

“And did you see?” His mother demanded, crossing her arms. His eyes drifted to the floor. He deserved this, he reminded himself. “Did you experience what it was like out there when you have no degree, no prospects, no _money_? Honestly Sherlock, I don’t know what could have possessed you. I know young people like to be spontaneous and adventurous but _this_? I thought you were missing, Sherlock! I couldn’t sleep for months and then…then when realised that you were just _gone_ …when Mycroft told us you just weren’t coming home…”

The tears were coming again, and his mother raised a trembling hand to cover her face.

“Look at you,” she whispered through her tears. “You don’t have any clothes. Mycroft said you were wearing the same thing you wore when you left home when he found you. You’ve lost so much weight, and you didn’t need to lose any weight. You look _tired_. You’re checking into rehab. I almost lost you.”

She let out a sob, and Sherlock could only stand there helplessly and watch as she broke down.

Closing his eyes, he wished nothing more than being able to go back in time and not run away from home. His mother was right: he should have just taken a break from school, talked to his parents, and maybe borrowed some money to travel. Travelling would have been good.

Instead he threw his life away.

Now he would probably never be able to travel. He would probably never find a decent job- let alone afford a place of his own to stay. He was nothing.

And now…a tear was falling from his eye. It started as a single drop, and then suddenly he was crying. Bloody _crying_. Since when was he so emotional? Since when did he break down in front of other people?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered through a choked sob. “I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_. I know sorry means _nothing_ right now, but I’m sorry. I ruined my life.”

He wrapped his arms around his waist as he drew in deep, uneven breaths, trying to pull himself together. It wasn’t fair to break down like this when his mother was in shambles. He didn’t deserve to break down. He only deserved to stand and watch her fall apart because of him.

But he _needed_ this. He had held his emotions in for far too long, so long he had begun to convince himself he didn’t have emotions.

“Sherlock,” his mother said, her voice again filled with so much pity.

“I’m a wreck,” he sobbed.

“Oh love,” she sighed, holding him close and kissing the top of his head. “We all make mistakes, bad ones. We lose people and push people away. We lose jobs and throw away chances. We become prone to habits we never thought we would develop. Life is hard. And it’s short. You’ve got to take care of yourself, Sherlock. Things can get out of hand quicker can you think.”

“I know,” he muttered.

The door open, and the two broke apart as Mycroft stepped into the flat.

“Mummy,” Mycroft greeted. He seemed unusually stiff and uncomfortable for someone entering their own home. “Sherlock, are you already?”

Nodding, Sherlock wiped an arm over his face and lied:

“Yeah.”

“We were just having a bit of a heart to heart,” his mother admitted. Letting out a heavy sigh, she glanced between her two sons before finally continuing: “Well, I am reading to go whenever you two are.”

His brother’s eyes wandered over to the kitchen table, where the soup and sandwich still sat untouched.

“Sherlock needs to eat,” Mycroft announced.

“I couldn’t”

“I knew it: you’re still not eating well!” His mother shot.

“I feel sick when I eat!” Sherlock blurted out. “I can’t force myself to eat, alright?”

Wrapping his arms around himself, his eyes drifted away from his family.

“He lived off of scraps for months,” Mycroft finally sighed. “His stomach’s still adjusting.”

He was surprised his brother was sticking up for him- and that he seemed to understand- but he still didn’t want to go into too much detail about his homelessness life with his mother. His mum was slowly sinking down on the sofa, like it was hitting her all at once just how serious this was. Maybe she was able to handle it- or convince herself she could handle it- when she was away, but now that she saw the reality…

“Where were you living?” She asked quietly.

Sherlock bit his lip.

“I had places to stay,” he lied.

He could never tell his mum about the numbers of nights he spent sleeping in the back of alleyways, under bridges, or by the river. Drug dens were his refuge from cold nights- even though they were usually just run down, abandoned buildings. He would still sleep on the floor, with no heat. Sometimes he could get into homeless shelters, but most nights he was more concerned about finding drugs than shelter.

No, he could never tell his mum those things.

“I’m safe now, Mum,” he whispered.

“I know,” his mother said, breathing in deeply as though she were trying to not break down again. “Myc, let’s just go. I’m sure they’ll feed him in rehab.”

 

It was the last thing his mother said until he checked in and they hugged goodbye. Checking into rehab felt oddly a lot like checking in to uni. He knew no one and he was shown a cupboard-sized room he would be sleeping. The place was nice enough, higher-end and filled with people like him who seemed to come from upper class families but drifted away to their own path.

When at last it was time for Mycroft and his mother to go he felt a pit fall in his stomach. Dare he say it: it was butterflies, and they were making him feel a bit ill.

Once again he would be totally alone.

He shook his brother’s hand and hugged his mother, who seemed reluctant to let him go.

“I’ll be okay,” he whispered, though he didn’t feel so sure of that himself.

“I just want my boy back,” she whispered. He closed his eyes tightly, telling himself he had to keep it together to prove to his mum he was okay.

There was nothing he could say to that. He just wanted to be back to normal (whatever that meant) too. But he knew that was different for his mum, who was probably remembering him crawling around the living room in nappies in the room at that moment.

“I wish I could turn back time,” he muttered. Honestly though, he wasn’t sure what good that would do. He felt like from the moment he tried cocaine in uni he was destined to ruin his life. “But I can do this. I don’t want _this_ to be my life.”

That much was true. He had no clue what he wanted to do with his life, he didn’t even think there was anything he could do at this point, but he knew he didn’t want _this_. He didn’t want to be homeless.

“I know you’re strong,” his mother told him. “Don’t give up, Sherlock.”

“I won’t.”

His mum gave him a kiss on the cheek and squeezed his arm.

“Take care of yourself,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock nodded, and just like that he was left to stand back and watch as his family left the centre.

“Mr Holmes?” He turned to find a short man with a beard, glasses, and wearing a doctor’s coat staring at him. He wasn’t smiling, but he instead looked like he was…deducing. Figuring him out. Deciding if Sherlock was someone who would take this seriously and get better or if he was one of those people who would do the program and fall right back off the wagon. “If you’re ready, I would like to give you a tour and introduce you to our team.”

He blinked.

“ _You’re_ giving me the tour?” He asked, impressed. He didn’t think doctors were the kinds of people who would want to do something as mundane as give tours.

“Of course,” the doctor smiled. “I’m Dr Graham. I will be overseeing your program. I want to make sure you’re fully prepared for the road ahead, and I want to make sure you get settled in.”

Somehow he felt relieved realizing there were adults there who were on his side. He had to let them help. That was the key to this, he thought, he had to keep letting people help him.

“Okay,” Sherlock replied quietly.

Without another worried he followed the doctor as he began to lead him through the facilities and introduce him to the next phase of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will either be a final chapter and an epilogue or just a final chapter. I haven't decided yet, and it will just depend on how I feel like the story flows. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all of your kudos and feedback! I really appreciate it! I love hearing what you think of the story!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for taking the time to read this! I'd love to know what you thought, and I would appreciate any feedback!


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